


i wore her jacket for the longest time

by marblewomen



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/F, I was crying when I wrote this, but im always crying, its in second person pls dont read it like an imagine, this is my experimentation with bad pretentious poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-21 02:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10675587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marblewomen/pseuds/marblewomen
Summary: sorry about the blood in your mouth





	i wore her jacket for the longest time

**Author's Note:**

> summary/title belong to richard siken

1.  
_“Is that my jacket?”_

 

2.  
You learn this first: death is just too damn easy.

 

3.  
“Hey, you’re alright” She assures you, hands on your shoulders like she’s holding you together, “first time’s always the hardest— you will get through this.”  
Your body hurts.  
You hurt.  
“How do you know that?”  
She grins, “You’ve been through worse. This is nothing. You’re strong. You’ll outlive us all.”

 

4.  
“It’s a good thing you have nine lives, huh?” She claps you on the shoulder as she passes by.  
_I must be on the ninth by now_ , you think.

 

5.  
You find yourself preoccupied by her mouth when she talks to you.  
But you’re always thinking about her mouth.

 

6.  
You begin to shove your comforter to the floor. You do this most nights. Sometimes you don’t even know that you do it, but in the morning, sure enough-- there it is in a pile by your bed. The jacket is all you want on your skin, you realize. So you begin to sleep topless, nothing but the soft, red fabric against your bare flesh and you’re cold, but it’s worth it, and it’s strange and it’s wrong but it’s worth it. And you can almost feel her. So it’s worth it.

 

7.  
3 months: 12 weeks. 90 days. 2160 hours. 129600 minutes. 7776000 seconds, and you’re in love. And you’d die for your love. And you’re a fool.

 

8.  
“You’re an idiot.”  
She’s picking glass out of her arm with a pair of tweezers.  
“How do you plan on stitching that up, Doctor Romanoff?”  
“I actually do have medical training, thank you very much smart ass.” She snaps the pair of bloody tweezers in your direction like an angry crab’s claw.  
She goes back to work and you watch her, grunting in pain, and the plink, plink, plink of the glass on the table.  
“Why’d you do it?” You ask.  
“I wasn’t going to leave you behind.”  
“Yeah but--”  
Natasha lifts her head to look at you, “But nothing. You’re my friend.” The intensity of her stare touches parts of you you didn’t know were there. “I love you, Wanda.”

 

9.  
You’re a witch and you love nothing but trouble, but she has a name.

 

10.  
“You’re in love with me.”  
“No.”  
There’s a smile in her voice. One that says she knows. You pray you’re misreading it. “Not even a little crush?”  
“No.”  
“You’ve been wearing that jacket for months-- you’ll have to excuse me for being suspicious--”  
“Red is my favorite color.”  
You look at her then, at her red, red hair and her red, red lipstick and red, red sweater and yes-- red is your favorite color.

 

11.  
_I would die for you_ , you say where she can’t hear, _I already have_.

 

12.  
She’s saying, “How long will you wear this?” The fingers of her left hand grip the collar of the red jacket, her cold breath leaves her mouth in wisps of smoke.  
“Until it turns to dust on my shoulders.” You say back. You’ve never sounded so confident in your life. _I hope they bury me in it_ , is what you don’t say. _You only know half as much as you think you do, Widow-- I’ll take my love to the grave_.

 

13.  
She’s a fighter. And you never wanted it, but so are you. And it makes sense-- you met her in a war. You fell in love with her on the battlefield. You two are just a couple of wartime sweethearts.

 

14.  
If you tell the one you love to be careful, does that increase their chances of returning home safely? No. But it makes you feel better, and when you say it, she gives you that smile, and says, “Always.”  
_I am going to die first._  
This is what you promise yourself every time she leaves.

 

15.  
Let me tell you a secret, little witch: you’ll die for her. And you’ll do it again and again and again until there’s nothing left.

 

16.  
Even when she’s yours, she’s not all yours. A girl like her doesn’t belong to anyone. A girl like her only belongs to herself.

 

17.  
“Who do you want me to be?”  
You’re sitting in her car— some flashy, foreign thing. It’s late and you’re parked on the side of a street you don’t know the name of. All you can think about is how her lips look: soft and delicate as the petals of a flower. All you can think about is her scent and the red of her hair and the green of her eyes and the flush in her cheeks. You want all of her skin beneath your hands, that’s all you want. You want her to speak your name in your ear. You want to make her cry out with pleasure.  
You want her vulnerable. You want her human.  
But you can have none of these things.  
You think you’ve made peace with this, but it hurts enough that you know you haven’t and _God_ , you love her and _God_ , it’s Hell.  
“Mine.”  
You curse yourself for letting it slip— if there were any doubt left, it’s long gone now.  
As if she didn’t already know. As if you didn’t know that she’s always known.  
You love lying to yourself far too much.  
It’ll be the death of you.  
“Okay.” She says.  
She kisses you. It’s the first and you’re just lucky you didn’t have time to be nervous.  
You don’t think your mouth was ever meant for anything but to touch hers.  
You feel her suck the air from your lungs— you feel her eat your soul raw but you don’t care.  
_Take it, you think, take it, it’s yours_.

 

18.  
“You sure you don’t want to see a movie or something?” She’s smoking again and it seems like that’s all she does anymore, and you don’t know why but you don’t ask because you know she won’t give you a straight-forward answer. “I can afford any place in this city, you know that right? Well—” She makes a face, “Tony can, but he doesn’t mind.”  
“I like your car.” You say.  
“You hate my car.”  
Of course I do, you think, it’s obnoxious. But you say, “I don’t hate it.”  
“Afraid to be seen with me?”  
“No, Natasha.”  
“Then what?”  
“I like being alone with you.” You move closer, “I don’t want anyone’s eyes on you but my own.” I want to keep you a secret. I want to hide you away from the world.  
She flicks her cigarette out the window. “You’re so dramatic, Maximoff.” Her arms slide around you, “You drive me insane.”

 

19.  
Her hand touches yours— just a brush of her fingers over your knuckles. You tilt your head to look at her— at her glassy eyes and red smiling mouth, those crooked bottom teeth you want to run your tongue across, “I want to live forever” you say. She doesn’t ask you to explain so you don’t. You think she understands. You think she feels it too.

 

20.  
Her skin is moonlit white and hot to the touch. You burn beside her and watch her red mouth stain the pillowcase. Her hair looks almost pink in this light. You want to touch it but you don’t— you don’t want to wake her up. You keep your hands to yourself.  
You watch her sleep.

 

21.  
The rainwater makes the skin between your toes sticky. There’s leaves on the bottom of both of your feet and you watch her try to scrape them off on the concrete, “Yuck”  
You can’t find the moon in the sky. The street lights jump out at you from puddles beneath your feet. It’s quiet— you don’t hear any cars, but you smell the heavy stench of exhaust. It even burns your nostrils.  
The city that never sleeps is sleeping soundly all around the two of you. You wonder if this is a dream. If it is, you don’t mind. You just want to be alone with her.

 

22.  
The two of you are someplace you don’t belong. It was her idea.  
‘We deserve a vacation, _printsessa_ ’  
You’re just too damn weak— a goddamned love sick fool and you fall for it every time, all it takes is a twitch of her mouth or a crook of her finger, and this time, a sweet, sweet word and you crack apart like an egg. You feel like your skin’s been peeled back. You feel raw.  
It’s that feeling you get. The hungry one, that bitter ache deep in the pit of your stomach, the one that says ‘I need you inside me’ it says, ‘I will wrench these ribs apart and lock them around you like a cage, and you’ll never escape’. These are the things you don’t say; the secrets that you keep.  
She’s staring at the water and you’re staring at her. The scenery surrounding the two of you is breathtaking, but all the twists and turns and imperfections mapped out across her face are twice as interesting.  
It’s a pity, you think, she must have spent a fortune.

 

23.  
Her fingers curl into yours and you stare at the water stain on her ceiling. The both of you lay topless on her mattress, your feet hanging over the edge. You listen to what you think is Fiona Apple drip from the speakers of her radio and close your eyes.  
You hear her start to sing along.

 

24.  
You think: she’s the worst kind of lover because she doesn’t sit still. She makes you chase after her. But then you realize, you don’t mind.

 

25.  
She smells like rust and tastes like salt.  
You kiss the cracks over her knuckles, the dried blood.  
She touches your face— reaches inside your chest and grips your heart in her hand, and pulls.

 

26.  
“I love you, asshole!”  
You love her too, but you walk away. You think: _That’s your problem. You love too much and it’s going to kill you both_.

 

27.  
“We had fun, didn’t we?” She’s drunk, you think she’s the only one who really takes advantage of Tony’s bar anymore, you wonder why but you care a lot less.  
You’re nursing a half-empty glass of wine.  
It’s for show. You’ve never liked alcohol.  
“I miss you.” She purrs, a little inebriated smile on her face, but her eyes are sad, and you can’t help but think: how pathetic you look— you want to laugh in her face: how desperate you sound.  
You say neither of these things. You lift the glass to your lips and take a sip. You say, “You had all the fun” and walk away.

 

28.  
You find yourself wishing you were millions of miles away but you know you can’t bare to be anywhere else. This is the hell you’ve chosen for yourself and you think it’d hurt a lot less if you didn’t love it so much.

 

29.  
You should’ve known she’d never have the guts to kill you.  
_Coward_ , you think, gritting your teeth.  
She tells you to shut your mouth, she tells you she loves you, but you think she just likes to watch you suffer.  
She makes you sick.  
She makes you feel like your bones are going to burst through your skin, and if you have to look at her face for another second you think they just might.  
_Coward, coward, coward_.

 

30.  
_Say it again_ , you beg where she can’t hear, _say it again_.

 

31.  
You refuse to love her out loud, because you’ve done this before, your love has a body count and you know to love her is to kill her.

 

32.  
“Run away with me, Wanda” She says. She’s drunk, but her eyes are sober, heavy with affection, heavy with truth, “we’ll run so far; they’ll never catch us.”  
“Go to sleep.”  
You kiss her. She tastes like liquor and something sweet.  
“I wanna—” She slurs, gripping your face between her hands.  
“We’ll talk about it in the morning” You promise.  
You don’t.

 

33.  
She’s got you hooked by the collar of the jacket, she’s holding on so tight the skin over her knuckles is stretched and white. Her arms are shaking. “I love you, you hear me?” She jerks you forward, her stare is melting the skin off your face, “Say it back, you fuck, say it back.”  
You don’t say anything.  
She looks like she’s going to cry or scream or kill you.  
“I can’t.” You finally say. You’re not cruel enough to leave her in suspense, or maybe you’re just not strong enough. You have to be stronger, if not for yourself, for her, but you know you can’t do either.  
You’re the worst kind of God— a weak one.  
A useless one.  
A scared one.  
She kisses you. Tears slide down both your faces. God, you’re sorry. You’re so fucking sorry.

 

34.  
You’re sorry. And you want to tell it to the whole world. “I’m sorry.” Is what she tells you. She’s always sorry— the two of you speak in apologies and absolutes. You’re too different to be alike and still you are, so much it scares you; so much that it will destroy you both. In some ways, it already has.

 

35.  
“It’s okay” you tell her “it’s okay— nothing can take me away from you” you choke down the ache in your throat, she’s stunned to silence and you hold her by the front of her shirt, “I’ll follow you anywhere.”  
You’d climb down the devil’s throat for this woman, you’d burn to ash in his stomach, if she asked you to.  
You fucking idiot.

 

36.  
You can taste the salt of your own sweat, can feel the heaviness of your own exhaustion in each rise and fall of your chest.  
You open your mouth for her fingers— they taste like you.  
She looks like a stranger, a stranger telling you she wants you from behind, but you give it to her because that’s all you know how to do: give.

 

37.  
_If it makes you happy, I’ll plunge the dagger into my own chest. If it makes you happy, I’ll bleed myself dry_.  
‘ _You’re so dramatic, Maximoff_ ’ you hear her say.

 

38.  
You remember laying with her in the grass, you remember the way it scratched at your skin and stained your clothing, you remember the words she said to you because you’d never heard anything so sweet, and it was-- so sweet you could feel it rot the teeth in your mouth: “My angel-girl” She’d whispered, so quick you’d hardly had time to hear it, “strung-up from the clouds.”  
You wonder how she did it-- how she tore you from the ground and flung you into space. How she made you feel like that. Bigger than your body. You realize it doesn’t matter anymore.  
But you wonder.

 

40.  
_I miss you._  
_I miss you._ _I miss you._

 

41.  
In your mind, you don’t die a hero. In your mind, you die by her hand.

 

42.  
You realize you’ll never have to say it.  
She already knows.  
She always will.

 

43.  
Who will remember you when you’re gone?  
You think: _I don’t want to be remembered_.  
You pray: _Dear Lord, don’t let me die a tragedy_.  
Let me die in her arms.  
Let me rest my head where her heart beats in her chest.  
Let me be selfish.  
Let me be cruel.  
Let me take from her again.  
Let me.

 

44.  
The bloom of red spreads; red on red. There’s beauty in everything.  
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.” She says.  
You can hear the way her throat closes around her words. You can see the tears in her eyes. _You’re dying, Maximoff, and you only wish it’d come sooner so you wouldn’t have to see her cry_.  
“I was never yours to save.” You manage. You’re crying too, you can taste the salt in your tears-- you’ll never see her face again.  
“You were always mine.” She tells you. “Always.”

 

45.  
Remember this: you killed her first.  
It’s only fair.


End file.
